THE night was tolerably tranquil. The Assembly continued its sittings till three o'clock in the morning.
At three o'clock, and before the members separated, they sent two of their ushers, who took a round through Versailles, visited the environs of the palace, and then went round the park.
All was, or all appeared to be, quiet.
The queen had wished to leave the palace by the gate which communicated with Trianon; but the National Guards had refused to allow her to pass.
She had alleged her fears, and she had been answered that she was safer at Versailles than she could be elsewhere.
She had, in consequence, retired to her apartments; and she, in fact, felt reassured when she saw that she was protected by the most faithful of her guards.
At her door she had found George de Charny. He was armed, and leaning upon the small musketoon used by the guards as well as the dragoons. This was unusual; the guards in the interior of the palace stood sentry with their sabres only.
On perceiving him, the queen went up to him:—
“Ah! it is you, Baron,” she said.
“Because he is the head of the family,” he said; “and in that capacity has the right to die for the king, who is the head of the State.”
“Yes,” said Marie Antoinette, with a certain degree of bitterness, “while you have only the right of dying for the queen.”
“That would be a great honor for me,” said the young man, bowing, “should God ever permit me to fulfil that duty.”
The queen made a step to withdraw, but a suspicion was gnawing at her heart.
She stopped, and half turning her head:—
“And—the countess,” she inquired, “what has be come of her?”
“The countess, Madame, came in about ten minutes since; and she has ordered a bed to be prepared for her in your Majesty's antechamber.”
Whenever she had occasion to make inquiry with regard to any of the De Charny family, she was always sure to find that they were rigidly attending to their duties, be they what they might.
“Thanks, sir,” said the queen, with a charming gesture of the head and hand at the same time, “thanks for your watching so carefully over the queen. You will, in my name, thank your brother for watching over the king so carefully.”
And after saying this, she went to her own room. In the antechamber she found Andrée, not lying down, but still sitting up and respectfully awaiting her return.
She could not prevent herself from holding out her hand to her.
“I have just been thanking your brother-in-law, George, Countess,” she said, “and I told him to thank your husband; and I now thank you, in turn.”
Andrée made a low courtesy, and stood aside to allow the queen to pass, who then went into her bedroom.
The queen did not tell her to follow her. This devotedness, from which she felt affection was withdrawn, and which, however icy cold it might be, she knew would exist till death, weighed heavily upon her feelings.
As we have before said, at three in the morning everything was quiet in the palace at Versailles.
Gilbert had left it with Monsieur de Lafayette, who had been on horseback for twelve hours, and who was so much fatigued that he could scarcely stand. On leaving the palace, he met Billot, who had accompanied the National Guards. He had seen Gilbert set off; he had thought that Gilbert might have occasion for him at Versailles, and he had therefore followed him like the dog who runs to rejoin his master who had left the house without him.
At three o'clock all was tranquil at Versailles. The Assembly, reassured by the report of its officers, had retired. It was believed that this tranquillity would not be troubled. This belief was ill-founded.
In almost all popular movements which prepare the way for great revolutions, there is a period of stagnation, during which it seems as if everything was finished, and the world might sleep in peace. These appearances are deceptive.
Behind the men who make the first movements there are others who wait till the first movements are over, when those who have taken the first steps rest themselves, either from fatigue or satisfaction, not wishing, either in one case or the other, to take a step farther.
Then it is that these unknown men take their turn,—these mysterious agents of fatal passions,—gliding through the darkness, taking up the cause where it has been abandoned, pushing it to the utmost limits, and appalling, in the outburst, those who have opened the way, and who, believing the end attained, the task accomplished, have retreated to their couches in the very middle of the race.
During this terrible night, very different effects had been produced by the arrival of two troops who had arrived at Versailles,—the one in the evening, the other during the night.
The first had come because it was hungry, and it asked for bread.
The second had come from hatred, and asked for vengeance.
We know who it was led on the first,—Maillard and Lafayette.
But now who was it that led on the second? History mentions not their names; but as history has failed in this, tradition names—
We already know him; we have seen him at the fetes given at the marriage of Marie Antoinette, cutting off legs and arms on the Place Louis XV.; we have seen him in the square before the Hôtel de Ville, urging on the citizens.
At length we see him gliding along in the night, like those wolves who prowl along the sheepfolds, waiting until the shepherds shall be asleep, To venture on thier sanguinary work.
As to this one, we have mentioned his name for the first time. He was a deformed dwarf, a hideous hunchback, whose legs appeared immeasurably long in proportion to his body, which was a visible representation of the distorted passions which raged within him. At every storm which disturbed the depths of society, this sanguinary monster was seen to rise with the scum and agitate himself upon its surface. Two or three times during the most terrible tumults he was seen passing through Paris, huddled upon a black charger, and similar to one of the figures in the Apocalypse, or to one of those inconceivable demons to which the pencil of Callot has given birth in his picture of the temptations of Saint Anthony.
One day at a club, and mounted on the table, he was attacking, threatening, and accusing Danton. It was at the period when the popularity of the man of the 2d of September was vacillating. Danton felt that this venomous attack of Verriere would altogether complete his ruin. He felt that he was lost,—lost like the lion who perceives the hideous head of a serpent two inches from his lips.
He looked around him, seeking either a weapon or some one to back him. Fortunately, he caught sight of another little hunchback; he immediately caught him under the arms, raised him, and then placed him upon the table immediately opposite his humpbacked brother, Verrière.
“My friend,” said he to him, “reply to that gentleman; I yield the floor to you.”
The whole assembly roared with laughter, and Danton was saved,—for that time at least.
There were, then, according to tradition, Marat, Verriere, and besides them,—
The Duke d'Aiguillon; that is to say, one of the most inveterate enemies of the queen.
The Duke d'Aiguillon disguised as a woman.
And who was it said this? Everybody.
The Abbé Delille and the Abbé Maury,—these two abbés who so little resemble each other.
To the first was attributed the famous line,—
“As a man, he's a coward, as a woman, an assassin.”
As to the Abbé Maury, that is another affair.
A fortnight after the occurrence of the events we are relating, the Duke d'Aiguillon met him on the terrace of the Feuillans, and was about to accost him.
“Keep on your way, strumpet!” said the Abbé Maury; and he majestically left the duke perfectly astounded.
It was therefore said that these three men, Marat, Verrière, and the Duke d'Aiguillon arrived at Versailles at about four o'clock in the morning.
They were leading the second troop of which we have, spoken.
It was composed of men who follow in the wake of those who combat to conquer.
These men, on the contrary; come to pillage and to; assassinate.
They had undoubtedly assassinated a little at the Bastille, but they had not pillaged at all.
Versailles offered a delightful compensation.
About half-past five in the morning the palace was startled from its sleep.
A musket-shot had been fired in the marble courtyard.
Five or six hundred men had suddenly presented themselves at the gate; and exciting, animating, pushing on one another, some or them had climbed over the railings, while the others, by a united effort, at length forced open the gate.
It was then that a shot fired by the sentinel had given the alarm.
One of the assailants fell dead. His bleeding corpse was stretched upon the pavement.
This shot had divided this group of pillagers, whose aim was to obtain possession of the plate in the palace; and that of some of them, perhaps, to seize upon the king's crown.
Separated as by the blow of an immense hatchet, the crowd is divided into two groups.
One of the groups goes to attack the queen's apartments, the other ascends towards the chapel; that is to say, towards the apartments of the king.
Let us first follow the one proceeding towards the king's apartments.
You have seen the waves rising when a high tide is setting in, have you not Well, then, the popular wave is similar to it, with this sole difference, that it keeps on advancing, without receding.
The whole of the king's guards at that moment consisted of a sentinel, who was guarding the door, and an officer, who rushed precipitately out of the antechamber, armed with a halberd which he had snatched from the hand of a terrified Swiss.
“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel. “Who goes there?”
And as no answer was given, and as the flood of men still ascended:—
“Who goes there?” he cried for the third time.
The officer feels at once what would be the result of a shot fired in the apartments; he strikes up the sentinel's gun, and rushing towards the assailants, he places his halberd across the top of the staircase, thus completely preventing any one from passing.
“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried he, “what do you want? What do you require?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said several voices, in mockery; “let us pass, we are good friends of his Majesty.”
“You are good friends of his Majesty, and you make war on him?”
This time there was no answer,—a sardonic laugh and nothing else.
A man seized the stock of the halberd that the officer would not let go. To make him quit his hold, the man bit his hand.
The officer snatched the halberd from the hands of his adversary, grasped the oaken stock with both of his, and dealing his adversary a blow on the head with all his strength, broke his skull.
The violence of the blow broke the halberd into two pieces.
The officer, consequently, had two arms instead of one,—a stick and a poniard.
He whirled the stick round, struck with the poniard. During this time the sentry had opened the door of the antechamber and called for assistance.
“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” said the sentinel, “assist Monsieur de Charny.”
The sabres sprang from the scabbard, glittered for an instant in the light of the lamp which burned above the staircase, and, to the right and left of De Charny, furiously attacked the assailants.
Cries of pain were heard; blood flowed; the wave of people retreated down the steps, leaving them red and slippery with blood.
The door of the antechamber opened again, and the sentinel cried:—
“Enter, gentlemen; the king orders it!”
The guards profited by this moment of confusion among the crowd. They rushed towards the door. De Charny entered last. The gate closes upon him; and the two large bolts shoot into their places.
A thousand blows are struck at once on the door, but benches, tables, and stools are piled up behind it. It would hold good at least for ten minutes.
Ten minutes! during these ten minutes some assistance might arrive.
Let us see what is going on at the queen's quarters.
The second group has darted towards the small apartments; but the staircase is narrow,—scarce two people can pass at once.
George de Charny watches there.
At the third “Who goes there?” no answer being given, he fires.
At the report the queen's door opens.
Andrée comes out, pale but calm.
“Madame,” cried George, “save her Majesty! it is her life they want! I am opposed to a thousand, but I will hold out as long as possible! Quick! quick!” Then, as the' assailants precipitated themselves on him, he shut the door, crying, “Draw the bolt! draw the bolt! I shall live long enough to allow the queen to fly!” And turning, he pierced the first two he met in the corridor with his bayonet.
The queen had heard everything, and was up when Andrée entered the room.
Two of her women, Madame Hogue and Madame Thibault, were hastily dressing her. Then, half dressed, the two women conducted her through a corridor to the king; while, calm and indifferent to her danger, Andrée drew bolt after bolt, as she followed the footsteps of Marie Antoinette.
